Chapter 11 #2
"That customer left confused as hell. She never finished his paperwork."
"I'll take care of it."
"Sure. Cool. You'll take care of the paperwork." I grab a rag, wipe grease off my hands that isn't there. "She was crying in the back room for two hours, Holt."
His hands still for half a second. Then he's moving again, adjusting something I can't see. "I know."
"And you're just gonna let her cry alone?"
"She doesn't want to talk to me."
"Did you ask?"
Silence.
"That's what I thought." I toss the rag down. "This is killing her."
"She's better off—"
"Don't." The word comes out sharp. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."
He straightens, finally meeting my eyes. There's something raw in his face. Something that looks like pain. "You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me."
"I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both." He turns back to the engine. "Drop it, Finn."
I want to push. Want to grab him and shake him until he sees what he's doing. But Scout's still upstairs, probably still crying, and I gave him Monday. Gave him space to work it out on his own.
He didn't.
I drop it.
For now.
The rest of the afternoon crawls. Holt works in silence. I try to focus on the transmission I'm rebuilding but keep losing my place. Keep thinking about Scout's face when she ran. The way her voice cracked.
Six o'clock rolls around. Closing time.
I'm wiping down tools when I hear footsteps on the stairs.
Scout appears, bag over her shoulder, car keys in hand. Her eyes are still red. Face still blotchy. She doesn't look at either of us.
"I'm going for a drive," she says.
And then she's gone.
Holt and I are alone in the garage.
The floor fans keep turning. The radio plays something I don't hear. And I'm done. I'm so fucking done watching this.
I walk over, plant myself between Holt and his truck. "We're talking. Now."
"Move."
"No."
He tries to step around me. I block him again.
"Finn—"
"I gave you Monday." My voice is steady. Controlled. "Thought maybe you'd work it out. Pull your head out of your ass. But this is killing her, and I'm not watching another day of it."
"Get out of my way."
"She's not eating. Not sleeping." I step closer. "Because of you."
"She's better off without—"
"Don't." I point at him. "Don't you fucking dare. You don't get to decide what she's better off with. That's not your call."
His jaw clenches. "You don't understand."
"Then make me understand. Tell me why you're doing this to her."
"I hurt her."
"So you said." I cross my arms. "And she forgave you. She told you it was okay. She wanted—"
"She doesn't know what she wants." His voice cracks. "She thinks she does, but she doesn't. She's been through too much. She's—"
"She's what? Too broken? Too damaged?" I take another step. "You sound just like her ex."
That lands. I see it in his face.
"Evan used to decide what she could handle. Used to tell her what she wanted. Used to make choices for her because he thought he knew better." I pause, let that sink in. "You're doing the exact same thing."
"That's not—"
"It is. You made a choice for her. Decided she was too fragile to know her own mind. Too broken to handle the truth."
"I saw the bruise." His voice drops. "Sunday morning. When she was sleeping. I saw what I did to her and I—" He stops. Swallows. "I can't be that person."
"What person?"
He doesn't answer.
"Your dad," I say quietly. "You think you're turning into your dad."
His eyes flash. "Don't."
"Why not? That's what this is about, isn't it? You saw a bruise and panicked because you remember what your mom's bruises looked like. You think if you can hurt Scout, even by accident, even when she asks for it, you're just like him."
"I said don't."
"But here's the thing." I lean against his truck. "Your dad hit your mom because he wanted to. Because he was angry. Because he was a piece of shit who got off on hurting someone smaller than him." I meet his eyes. "You left because you were terrified of hurting her. Those aren't the same thing."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Maybe not. But you know what the worst part is?" I wait until he looks at me. "She thinks it's her fault."
His head snaps up. "What?"
"Scout. She thinks she asked for too much. She thinks she scared you away. She thinks she's broken."
"No—"
"I heard her yesterday. In the bathroom. Talking to herself." I quote her words exactly. "'I ruined everything. Evan was right about me.'"
Something breaks in his face.
"You left because you thought you hurt her," I continue. "But she thinks you left because she asked you to hurt her. You made a choice for her. Decided she was too fragile. Just like Evan used to."
"That's not—"
"If you don't fix this, you're going to lose her. Not because you hurt her. Not because she's scared of you. But because she'll spend the rest of her life thinking she's too broken to be loved."
The silence stretches between us. Suffocating.
"Tell her the truth. About your dad. About the bruises. About why you panicked."
"I can't—"
"Yes, you can. Tell her it wasn't her fault. She didn't ask for too much. She's not broken." I meet his eyes. "Because if you don't, she's going to believe she is. And that'll destroy her worse than any bruise."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "This is your fault."
I blink. "What?"
"You told me to give her space." His voice is rising. "You said she needed time. You said—"
"I said she needed space to process what Evan did to her." I step forward. "Not space to think you abandoned her because she's broken."
"You should have—"
"Should have what? Read your mind? Known you saw a bruise and spiraled?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "That's on you, man. All of it. I can't make you be brave."
His hands curl into fists.
I see it coming half a second before it happens. See the rage and guilt and fear all twisting together in his face. See his weight shift.
His arm draws back.
Here we go. Don't even try to stop him. He needs this.
I don't move.